


Burning Up

by icarus_and_sun



Series: Jack/Daniel (OC) [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gay, Gay Male Character, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, LGBTQ Character, Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wholesome, Worry, cute as hell, sick, very gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_and_sun/pseuds/icarus_and_sun
Summary: After Jack finishes breakfast, he notices that Daniel has fallen ill, something he failed to notice the night before. Jack decides to take the day off to take care of his husband, who's bundle of nerves does not let him rest.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character, husbands - Relationship
Series: Jack/Daniel (OC) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575409
Kudos: 15





	Burning Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! Don't be too harsh, please. These are two of my OCs, Jack & Daniel. They are happily married. While Jack is normally more calm that Daniel, he cannot seem to stop worrying about his ill husband. I think it's cute. This is all from Jack's point of view.
> 
> I’ve always sucked at grammar...
> 
> The title is a work in progress.

JACK'S POV

"I'm missing the salt", I mutter embarrassed in between my teeth while reaching for the salt and pepper shakers in the cupboards. I take every opportunity to cook breakfast for us. To be honest, it is the only meal we often have together. Plus, I get to show off my skills from working at the bakery. Unlike some mornings, I decided to start of the day simple yet promising: scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice. Besides, Daniel has to go to work at 6:15 a.m. and I won’t have more time with him after that. The hospital has been very busy this time of year. At least I have Christmas break to look forward to. It's not every day that Daniel agrees to a vacation so close to when he must go back to work. I have to take advantage while I still can. Plus, he needs some rest. Trust me, that's not up for debate.

As I walk through the door to announce that breakfast is ready, I notice how pale he looks now that the sun has shone light directly through the curtains. He looks… bad. His face is flushed and tilted to the side, as in a great deal of pain. Even though the room is in a whopping 70 degrees and the heater is not on, he is covered in sweat while shivering under many blankets: the ones that we keep next to the bed for emergency. I open the curtains to let the sunshine in, showering the room in gold. I walk toward Daniel and sit by his side. As if scared to break him, I gently place the back of my hand against his forehead. He's burning up. While cupping his head in my hands, the fever that was once subtle grew. He groans softly, in pain, before turning his head toward my palm and gently resting his head. I hear his pained voice, whispering softly against the loudness of the city. "Your hands are cold." Not to be dramatic, but that was the precise moment that I felt panic rise from deep within my stomach that plagued my throat, making it somewhat hard to breathe. I couldn't breathe. I don’t like seeing my loved ones like this. Especially not him.

I run a hand through his damp hair once residing on his forehead, and whisper, "I'll be right back, my love. I'm going to find a thermometer to take your temperature. You’re burning up." I place my hand on his forehead once more. He was, in fact, burning. In between either a delirious haze or a grave exhaustion, his words slur from his mouth, drawing trails of incomprehensible mumbles, which I understood as a simple "Ok". I open the first drawer of the dresser closest to the door, where we keep the first aid kit and pull out the tympanic thermometer, which is what he calls the digital thermometer. I turn to him. For my husband being a doctor, you would think he has a good immune system. On the contrary, it isn't. His slow steady breaths fill the room I once thought quiet. I just want him to feel better.

102? I don't have to be a doctor to know that's no good. I had forgotten about the breakfast I brought him; it is now sitting in the corner, cold. His head is on my lap while his body follows, scrunched up against my hip and thigh as if he was trying to conserve heat. I had already turned on the heater, but that had done nothing to stop the shivering. I sat up against the bed, holding his head gently while my fingers drew soft strokes in his hair. He liked that. The silence of the room is broken when he raises his head from my lap and coughs into the opposite direction. While his coughing fit continues, I lay down the plan for him, "Alright, take it easy. There you go. I'm going to call in and tell them that you've "fallen ill", and that you will not be able to come to work until you get better. Because if you think you are leaving this house like this, you are gravely mistaken." That last part was more for me than for him; he already knew I was going to keep him quarantined the minute he first felt a tickle in his throat. He groans audibly while raising a hand to his temple. It might not have occurred to me that he may have a headache. "Sorry…", I whisper while grabbing his hand and slowly pulling him toward me. He follows my lead slowly, while short painful groans escape his throat until I have him in my arms. "You're safe, darling. I got you.", I say while softly caressing his hair. It’s a reflex. I can feel himself relaxing until he melts in my arms. I hold him still while grabbing the napkin on his drawer and passing it softly on his forehead and neck, collecting as much sweat as I can. He sighs deeply as I glide my hand through the back of his neck. Are his lips blue-ish? I'm probably imagining this. The circles around his eyes are not a figment of my imagination. Of that, I'm sure. They are always there, but not this profound. A sharp breath escapes his throat as I hold him close to me, along with rapid and short breaths that indicates that he is hurting. "Hey… hey. Are you ok? What's wrong, baby?", I say slightly more worried than I would like to sound. "Noth… nothing. Everything just kind of hurts right now.", he says calmly as to not cause any unnecessary worry. He has his hand on his chest. That I notice. I softly place my hand on his chest and stare back at him. "What can I do to help?", I say even though that if it were up to me, I would be rushing to the hospital in a panic haze. Still, I wanted to keep calm for him. Just for him. "Nothing. Really. My chest is just a little tight. That's all-". Just as he was about to finish, he launches himself forward, arching his back, and starting a new coughing fit. I rub my hand on his back with the occasional pats -- more encouragement than actual help. As soon as he stops, he starts to lean forward. The difference is, he doesn’t stop. "Woah… Danny, you need to lay down," I say, catching him in my arms and helping him accommodate himself in the bed. "I'm dizzy. I can't…", before he finishes, I plant a kiss on his forehead that stops him in his tracks. Both of us stay still.

"My boss is going to kill me," he slowly opens his eyes to say. "Not if this kills you first…", I think about saying, but realize that is something quite insensitive to joke about right now. Yet, I do anyway. He chuckles lightly, his eyes closed under the shadow of the moist rag I'm passing on his feverish skin. "Ergo, we should focus on getting you better and not what will happen when you get better. Besides, he has to understand. If not, then he is a crappy doctor," I state my point. "You’re right," he whispers, turning his face toward my hand that was now cupping his cheek. He looks small under all those blankets; powerless. Normally, I look smaller than him. To be fair, he is 5'9" and I'm 5'7". Especially now standing up, I see him laying there, vulnerable. Low raspy breaths escape his aching throat while he refuses to move a muscle for fear of pain and stiffness. "Listen, love. If you don’t get better soon which, I must admit, might not happen, I'm taking you to the hospital, alright?", I inform him of my decision. As expected, he is not pleased. "No, please. God. They are understaffed with the amount of patients that are coming in, and I don’t think I can wait long without throwing up", he says, melancholy and stressed, "or fainting. I just want this to be over. How can I make this be over?" What I believe to be a sob escapes his throat as he finishes placing his hand on his forehead, blocking the rag. I knew how to make this be over. Well, at least for now.

He's radiating heat under the blankets. I had to turn the heater off but, I don’t think he would mind. His hair is soft between my fingers as I twirl locks of hair and run his fingers down his cheek. His head is on my shoulder as I hold him, cuddling him and humming the first song that comes to mind. I sit up gently and place his head on my lap, gently lifting his head and guiding him toward me. He sighs slowly, calmly. I place my index fingers on his temples, creating circles on his skin to alleviate the headache. He drifts off slowly to the rhythm of my fingers massaging his skin. In his feverish complexion, a small smile crosses his lips. I hum until I forget to, and play with his hair until I drift off and let go.


End file.
